Between the Devil and Durmstrang

Where to go next was the question. Their visit hadn't lasted nearly as long as they had thought and the prospect of returning to Durmstrang was only slightly enticing. In a small café in a corner of the London International Portkey Bureau, they debated their options. None of them were particularly attractive. They'd both been on vacation; they wanted to go home. And home, for now at least, was Durmstrang.

Huddled over a small table, their almost required cups of tea and coffee holding center stage, they debated the possibilities. The allure of Stockholm was easily offset by their lack of fun over the last two days. Mired in his own depression, Wronski offered little in the way of suggestions. Jones chain-smoked and chased down the waitress regularly for coffee refills.

"So, I have fifteen Galleons, six Sickles and a handful of Knuts. I guess we could go somewhere cheap," Jones resumed the cyclical analysis. Slurping her coffee, she watched for any sign of life from her companion. He could have been dead for all she could tell. Slouching deeper into her chair, she drummed her fingers on the tabletop as she fished for a solution. "We could go to France. I'd like to see that hotshot Parisian place Loup talks about all the time. I heard it's really expensive, though. I don't speak French." She quirked an eyebrow at Wronski, waiting for him to say that he was fluent. Nothing. She squirmed into a slightly more upright position. "Spain is supposed to be nice. I guess Madrid has an area we could change money in. Supposed to have great wine." A small mutter was the only indication that he was still alive. "I have enough clothing to last two more days. What about you?" He sighed in response. "You're a lot of help. I have a bunch of things to do back at school. I need to write some new tests for the Ritual Magic class. Someone stole the folder with my masters last year. I'm sure it's for sale," she said, flagging down the waitress yet again.

Another pot of tea and cup of coffee were set down on the table. The waitress shot a look at the still unresponsive Wronski. "I could bring a pint for the gentleman," she offered. Jones smiled and shook her head no, noting that he looked gloomier at the mention of the pint. The waitress scooped up a pile of sickles and left.

Jones swirled her coffee a few times as she tried to decide where to go. She felt incredibly tired. All she really wanted to do was go back, do her laundry, finish any of the novels that were scattered about her rooms, sleep for days and not travel. "We could go back," she suggested wearily. "I have a lot of things to get done before the middle of August."

"What about the two magic cops?" Wronski asked, his attention riveted to the floor. He wouldn't look up or even look away from a particular piece of tile.

"Smith is a bastard. Peterson. You don't want anything to do with Peterson. Maybe if we just stay in the building and hang out on campus, we might be able to avoid them." Jones pulled out a package of gum and unwrapped a piece. She tried offering the package to Wronski, but his attention to the tile never wavered. "Let's try it. I really want to go back to my quarters. I've got a bunch of novels to read and I'm sick of living out of a suitcase. I'd like to have a beer at the tavern and a falafel at the kebob house. If I can't spend the summer in Seattle, then I guess I'd like to relax back at the school. Maybe get in a few games of darts and challenge Baldung to another game of pool. He won last time."

Wronski made a noise that was either a chuckle or a gag, it was hard to tell, but he did glance up long enough to check the queue to the door. "Yeah. No reason to stay here. Might as well go back." He sounded colorless, defeated, as he returned to his examination of the tile.

"Are you going to mope? We could stop in Stockholm for a day. Leggy blondes. Remember?" Jones strove to exude cheer. Wronski continued to slump against the wall. "For crying out loud, if you don't cheer up soon, I'm going to do something to force you to at least sit up straight."

A small smile flickered. "Leggy blondes would be nice, but, after last night, maybe brunettes or redheads would be better. Think you can arrange that?" Without straightening, he turned his head barely enough to see her, a shock of hair falling over his eyes.

"Professor Wronski, you'd be amazed what I can do. Tell you what, you point her out and I'll make sure she's positively enchanted with you."

Wronski's almost smile faded. "No magic. I'd rather be alone than always wonder if it was a spell that made her like me."

"Joke. It was a joke, Paul." Disgusted, Jones began to rummage in her pockets for her cigarettes. "OK, maybe it wasn't completely a joke. I could do it. I've done it before. It's not even that difficult." Finding the cigarettes, she tapped the bottom of the package to release one. "Maybe you ought to switch to guys. You seem to be taking this way too hard."

He looked offended and slowly pulled himself upright. "Should I give you a run for Mueller?"

With the cigarette in her mouth and the hand ready to flick the lighter, she stopped and looked at him wide-eyed. "Hey!"

Wronski looked like a little boy who had managed to find the secret, never-fail teasing topic. "Maybe he likes leggy blonds. What do you think?" With a hand on one hip and the other propped behind his head, he arched his eyebrows and smiled seductively before breaking down in half-smothered snickers.

Jones was not amused. She finished lighting her cigarette as she listened to him make unattractive snorking sounds. "I don't think Massys is taken. You can have him."

"Nah, he drinks too much. Baldung is too skinny." An actual smile shone as he ran a hand though his hair. "If I can't have Mueller, I guess I'll just have to be alone."

Caught up in the moment, Jones offered, "Hey, I don't think Werner is taken. He's not bad looking."

Wronski went silent as if a door had shut.

"Uh, OK. Let's go back to the village. I'll buy you a beer. How's that sound?"

A pause and then a nod as he looked away. "Yeah. Sounds good. You still have the chits?"

* * *

The International Portkey station buzzed with activity. Aurors were everywhere, checking paperwork, peering intently at travelers and asking a great deal of questions.

The lines moved very slowly. Jones had plenty of time to go through all the ranges of emotion from antsy to catatonic.

They weren't sure what criteria were being used to pull people out for questioning. As the link jerked forward, they could see people being led away. A few returned, but only a very few. Sweat shone on Wronski's forehead and the telltale tic under his eye began. He looked guilty. The group of Aurors and Cerebors at the hallway before the actual hub examined him closely. A dark-haired man shifted to a dog and sniffed at them suspiciously. It was so unexpected that Jones broke out in laughter. "Animagus," one stone-faced man offered as an explanation, not knowing that the two of them could match the spell.

Wronski's luggage was inspected closely. He was ordered to remove his coat and then had to stand still while the coat was searched and a very mundane pat-down was done to his person. The ten-minute examination felt like hours. The appearance of two wands drew much muttered commentary. Different men worked the Priori Incantatem spells, looking for something to connect Wronski with something that no one would talk about.

The normally chatty Jones changed into something of a time long gone. Harmless. She radiated harmless. The Aurors hardly glanced at her as they carefully searched all of her companion's belongings and handled him none too gently. Her, they smiled at and generally ignored.

The official stopped just short of hauling Wronski off to one of the never-to-return rooms. The Durmstrang paperwork seemed to make them nervous; however, after one last sniff by the dog Animagus, they were allowed to pass.

 

* * *

It was early evening when they arrived at the village. Lugging their bags, they hiked up the slight hill towards the tavern. Wronski's pale face and unhappy silence inspired Jones to search through her pockets again. She made him stop by the fountain in the square and, between the two of them, they managed to dig out enough money for a much needed drink. "We deserve it!" she declared. "Besides, we have to go in there one way or another. Let's have a beer and then head back. It ought to be just getting dark by curfew, so we have plenty of time. We'll be less conspicuous then."

A warm breeze, scented with flowers and food, made the terrace the most attractive place to sit. The tables inside the tavern were mostly full, but the outside terrace was still almost empty. They snagged their favorite table tucked into a corner. Without even asking, the waitress deposited a pitcher of beer and two glasses on their table before disappearing back into the tavern. Wronski filled the glasses to almost overflowing and then slouched back into his chair.

In the blue twilight, everything seemed lazy. Laughter floated amongst the tables, punctuated by pitchers of various fullness being slammed down. On one of her orbits, the waitress delivered a platter of sausages and a pot of mustard, someone else's order. "It almost smells good," Jones said as she poked one with a fork. "I must be starving."

Wronski was still sulky. Not inclined to eat with enthusiasm at the best of times, he accepted one of the misplaced wursts to ignore it while it cooled in the evening breeze. While Jones ate, he observed the rest of the slowly increasing crowd. Sprinkled here and there amongst the crowd were faces he recognized from previous visits. He didn't know a single name, but the faces were familiar. There were a lot of other faces that looked out of place.

In the mountain village, there were few who were not pale. Its rocky crags housed a very Aryan population. The Turkish family that had opened the kebob house the previous year had been the first influx of diversity the area. That evening, the clientele had a very international air. The lilt of the Caribbean was heard drifting over a fiery debate in Spanish. Next to their table was one crowded with men who would be more at home in the desert. For the alpine area, it seemed jarring.

A true southern drawl growled from a table in the center of the terrace. Its owner sported the obligatory cowboy hat required by some unwritten law when Texans left their state. Wronski flinched at the sound. Jones peered up from her second helping, her face wary. "Yeah, I know. I thought they would stay at the school. I guess they got bored with the castle and decided to come down for a visit. Can you imagine how long it would have taken with the way the Portkey set up? One key for all of these guys? I wonder if they made a bunch more for them?"

"I thought you would be more nervous. I am." With his face set stonily, he made a slow scan of the guests. "Do you recognize anyone?"

"A few. That bastard Peterson is behind me, three tables back. His back's to us, but he knows we're here. Smith must be around, too." She took a long pull of beer. "Don't leave me alone with them. Please." The last word had an edge to it, giving just a hint of the fear.

"I won't. Can I ask why you're so scared?" Wronski's mouth didn't move, the words fought their way out between his clenched teeth.

"Peterson has a score to settle with me." Her eyes flickered to one side, as if trying to see the man. "When I left Seattle, I used an unfocused blast of magic to knock out the cops who had come to get me. He was one. If that wasn't bad enough, I guess it did something to his old partner. Ricco didn't have all the information. Just told me that Peterson was in a rage for weeks, shaking down everyone who ever was associated with me for information." She lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. "He's the strongest wizard I've ever met. Stronger than Massys. Can't you feel it from here? It crackles."

Her face was ashen as she faced old memories. "Peterson can strip you down. Put a reducer on you. It takes a lot of power to do that. More than I have. Turns you into something less than alive. I've seen what it can do." The ash on the cigarette grew long enough to begin crumbling off; she hadn't taken a puff. "I knew a guy, my major competition in fact, who got hauled in about six months before I had to leave. He'd managed to find himself a specialty niche. No one else wanted to do that kind of work. It required a lot of energy and a little of you each time." Glancing around to see if anyone was listening, she leaned forward, "You've seen Loup's eyes? I'd never seen anyone like her before, but this guy had red eyes. Did the soul chippers. The ones that need some of you for each spell. Big magic. Bad magic. Pays a lot." Wronski went still, staring off into space, listening to every word. "This guy got hauled in on suspicion. They didn't have any hard evidence. He was good. The best. Too good. Word gets around. When I saw him next, there was only a shell left. If you cast an Exhibeo on him, you could see the spells. He had the whole thing done to him: reducers, locators, binding spells. He couldn't do anything except wither." She slumped back in her chair, snarling, "They called that justice."

"Did he deserve it?"

"That's not the point. He never had a trial." Jones flung her napkin at her plate. "People like us hardly ever go to trial."

"Rose, did he deserve it?" Wronski fixed his eyes on hers, demanding to know.

"Probably." She looked away, "I only knew his reputation. We don't discuss details in the business."

"But he killed people?"

"Yeah, but," she began, a defensive tone to her voice.

"Then, he probably got what he deserved. It isn't right." He reached for his beer slowly, as if the tale had slowed his movements.

Jones wrapped her arms around herself, feeling both defensive and confused at his reply. As she struggled to find a response, someone stopped next to their table.

Sounding as if he wanted the entire world to hear, Smith announced, "Jonesy! You ought to listen to your pal here. He understands that we protect and serve." Smith clapped a hand onto Wronski's shoulder. As Wronski tried to squirm away, the hand tightened and pushed down. "You, well, you protect for money and serve up all sorts of badness." With the evening's sunset glinting off his sunglasses, Smith turned towards the terrace. "This little lady is one badass witch. You’d think that such a little thing wouldn't be capable of doing what she can do." Conversations hushed and heads turned.

"Fuck off, Smith. Leave me alone. I don't do the work any more," Jones muttered as she drew in on herself, trying to hide.

"You don't do the work any more? Well, that makes everything alright, doesn't it?" Smith looked out at his audience. The men and women there took a fixed interest in the scene. "You good folks ought to take a long look at this woman. One of our 'problem children' back home. I have a list of crimes that we suspect her of that's about this long." Smith held his arms out stretched, eliciting a few chuckles and more warning growls. "Jonesy here, well, let's just say that she had a steady clientele. Did a lot of blood work, didn’t you, Jonesy?" Smith smiled down at her, his hand still clamped on Wronski's shoulder. "We didn't mind when she just did wards. Nothing wrong with wards. Everyone has a right to protect their property. But, Jonesy here, well, she had that dark side thing going on, too. We noticed something was up when the oddest group of people started dying. Healthy people. People in important positions in big money firms. People with enemies. Enemies who liked to visit Jonesy's neighborhood a lot. Jonesy had a real good year back in '92. '93 wasn't bad, either." Smith chuckled, a nasty humorless sound.

"Taxes. Taxes are where we always win. If we can't nail them on the crimes, we can almost always get them on income tax evasion." Smith tutted, "You're smart, girl, but you can't run from ol' Uncle Sam. He wants a piece of your hide, a veritable pound of flesh." With a cold grin, Smith shoved Wronski's shoulder forward, almost dislodging him from his chair. "Now, old Jonesy here is real strong. Real strong. Take another look. Does that look like a powerful witch? Doesn't, does she? Looks like my Aunt Margey. Well, that doesn't really work since my Aunt Margey can kick most folks' asses from here to home." The crowd looked confused, the attempt at American humor didn't make a lot of sense. "Suffice to say that looks are deceiving. Jonesy here took out four men when we broke her wards. Four! Now, you might ask how did she take out four of us in the Department of Magical Affairs? Well, she didn't even use her wand. That's how much of a badass she is." Smith waited while the crowd absorbed the fact. "We got a locator onto her." He bent over to look Jones in the face. "You're gonna die with that one, honey. Peterson cast that one and he's better than you." Standing again, he resumed his lecture. "Jonesy here is why we need to get our laws on magical crimes standardized. We can't get her back. Since we have the death penalty back home, you won't extradite her. So, she gets to stay."

"Now, I think that you folks ought to read that handout you got in your packet. The one about the law changes my country wants to implement. I'm sure you all have read it, right?" Smith laughed, as if expecting that no one had. "It's a fine piece of legislation. It would make sure that little badasses like Jonesy here get sent back to us where she can stand trial. We need to get our laws balanced. Justice needs to be served throughout the world! When you see what we can offer you in return," Smith said, his voice growing louder with each word, beating at his audience, "you'll understand that we're right. We're offering you the future."

A slow clapping sound smacked from the doorway to the tavern. Jones sneaked a look that way, hoping for anything, anyone, that would distract Smith long enough for her to dart out. Her savior stood before the doors, dressed in the uniform of her oppressor. Werner was stone-faced as he applauded. Looking every inch of the image of Law in the area, he walked slowly towards the table, still clapping, his eyes riveted on Smith. "Most impressive, Herr Smith. Do you pull the wings off of flies, too?" The soft purr of Werner's voice carried over the entire area. "These two are my problem. Under my jurisdiction. They have caused no problems since they have arrived. It is such a pity that you cannot claim the same." Stopping in front of the table, Werner shifted in position until he wedged himself between Jones and Smith, creating a small sliver of space, an avenue of escape. She never stopped to say thank you as she raced out of the terrace and into the tavern itself, leaving Wronski to fend for himself. The inside was stuffed as full of Aurors as the terrace had been. Wild-eyed, she stood with her back against the wall, casting about for a way to the Portkey with the least amount of legal interference.

"Rose, here." It was more of a rumbling than words. With a great deal of effort, she glanced towards the sound. The door to the back room stood open slightly. A muffled crack of a billiard ball striking another and then her name rumbled again. Caught between the Aurors she knew and those that she didn't, she opted for the former.

She closed the door behind her, almost slamming it in her haste. The large form of Mueller held out a hand, a most uncharacteristically sympathetic look on his face. "Ok?" The brutish features softened as the question was grunted.

"Smith…" she started and then, hearing her cousin's warnings, she shut up and shoved herself against the wall, trying to feel like her back was protected. The door opened again, shutting her off behind it as Werner entered.

The anger rolled off Werner in waves. In his own refuge, he dropped his polite mask and publicly seethed. "Arrogant bastards! How dare they!" Jones watched in amazement as Werner stalked around the room, his men and women parting before him. She'd seen him annoyed, amused and drunk, but never furious.

The backroom that the District's Aurors used as their own was furnished sparsely with few tables and chairs, mostly to make room for a billiards table and to provide an avenue for the two darts boards. Over the last several months, Jones had played many games of both there and she had often wondered about the padded post in the back, dismissing it as a safety precaution when the beer and spirits flowed a bit too freely. Why the post was padded became clear when Werner hauled back and hit it hard enough to make it vibrate. She backed as far as she could into the corner next to the door, watching as Werner worked off his fury. His people observed silently. The worn spots in the padding no longer spoke of tripping drunks, but of release. By the time he spent himself, his knuckles bled freely. Without a word, Mueller handed him a towel and waited while the brutalized flesh was cleaned.

From the shadows, she watched and, unable to stop an old habit, tracked the progress of the towel. A portion of her brain detached itself from its panic and wanted that piece of cloth, wanted it for the red stains and what she could conjure from it. The towel was dropped onto a chair, forgotten.

Werner took a chair close to the post and sat down, fuming. Mueller disappeared out the door, smiling briefly at the still-huddled Jones as he passed. The few others there leaned against walls watching their leader or took chairs of their own to mutter among themselves.

It was almost as if her world went into shades of gray. Watching Werner's every movement and noting how his men and women looked at him, Jones' paranoia took control. She eased her wand out. To the left of where Werner sat, a table stood cluttered with glasses and an almost-empty pitcher. One of the few Aurors whom Jones didn't know by first name leaned against a wall next to it, one hand perilously close to a full glass of beer. "Movere!" she whispered and, with small flicks of her wand, called the glass forward until it touched the man's hand. He flinched at the touch, sending the glass to crash upon the floor, spewing beer and splinters of glass everywhere. All were drawn towards the sound and then she called it, "Accio, towel!" and quickly stuffed it into the depths of her jacket pocket. She felt a brief stab of guilt at securing it. Werner had deflected Smith, but how long would that last? She needed leverage and the blood was the first part.

Mueller reentered the room, careful to only open the door wide enough to sidle through. He carried two pitchers of beer and brought a visitor. In his wake, Wronski followed.

Wronski looked awful. His pale features were white and his eyes wild. Uncertain, he stopped just inside the doorway, obviously looking for someone. Without looking up, Werner said, "Behind you, in the shadows."

"What are we going to do?" Wronski's voice was higher pitched than normal, echoing the distress in his face. "The whole place is crawling with them. I had some guy from Boston get in my face, demanding to know whose jurisdiction I was in. He wanted to know my number! I don't have a number. What was he talking about?"

"You get a number after they haul you in the first time," Jones mumbled, cautiously looking around Wronski to keep an eye on the Aurors she knew. "If they ask again, make something up. Mine has five digits."

"You have a number?" Wronski crumpled against the doorjamb, sliding down to a heap on the floor. "I don't even know what they're talking about. I just want to go back to my quarters and go to sleep."

"What is your number, Professor Jones?" Werner asked flatly, dispassionately.

"65720. Seattle. Northwest Division. That's all I usually have to give." Jones rattled it off listlessly, afraid that the old procedures were about to begin again.

"How many years were you active?"

Without Wronski to hide her, she faced most of the district's active Auror force, the largest interrogation she'd ever had. "Depends on what you mean by 'active'."

Silence. Jones agonized over her response, knowing it wasn't any use to lie. She had nowhere else to go. Couldn't go home. Couldn't go anywhere in the States. Mexico had opened its borders years ago to allow the Department of Magical Affairs Investigations Division any access it wanted. Canada had always made it quite clear that she would only be tolerated for a short amount of time. The Aurors owned Europe. She worked there. Looking at the floor, she mumbled, "Twenty-two years."

"A long time. All in Seattle?"

There seemed to be no place to look where an expectant pair of eyes didn't wait. She fixed her gaze at the floor, hating every piece of information she knew she had to give. "Yeah. There was more than enough work, especially once the big software firms got established."

"I have seen your files. The paperwork is, indeed, many pages long. You are suspected of a great many crimes, but none of them were ever proven." Werner sounded tired. He winced as he flexed his hands, noting the shredded knuckles. "Your Mr. Smith is annoying. Is he effective?"

She checked to see whether Werner looked as tired as he sounded. "Smith? I guess so. Peterson was the one we all worried about."

"Mr. Peterson, the very large black gentleman?" Werner almost smiled. "Yes. I believe that I understand. He seems to be quite precise. The techniques he has been presenting have been very interesting. Very high tech." Werner glanced up at her. "'High tech' - that is the correct expression, yes?"

She couldn't help herself and grinned, "You got it. What's he covering?" When the group shifted uncomfortably, she said, "Look, I think I've had all of it done to me at least four times. I'll bet that I've been through things that the magic cops aren't going to present. What's he doing? Signature spells? Reducers? Oh, sorry, Deminuo or maybe he's showing…"

Werner stopped her. One hand held up, he slumped in his chair, head to one side as he regarded her from heavily lidded eyes. "Yes, I see you know the procedures well. These techniques, are they effective in controlling the crimes? Better than ours?"

Jones' face went blank as she considered her answer. It wasn't fear, but the need to evaluate the differences. The silence seemed to last for far too long. Wronski looked up from his place on the floor, his misery forgotten momentarily as he waited.

"Well, I'm not sure. It was almost a competition back home. They don't play very nice there. Guys like Smith don't bother being polite and they're not shy about using their magic without any warning. It's supposed to intimidate us, but it mostly just made us more cautious. I learned more about how to do my work by avoiding them than from any spellbook. I could draw upon the most interesting people for help. No one likes the magic cops. No one. In fact, I knew one guy who made a point of shooting them whenever he could. Magic doesn't stop bullets."

She looked over at the assembled Aurors. They looked uneasy and bordered on hostile. She knew them. Knew most of their names, whether they were married, whether they had kids, where they went on holiday. Knew more about them than would have been considered 'fair' back home. She cleared her throat, buying a few seconds to collect her thoughts about what she knew about working here. It occurred to her that she knew very little about the local Dark Arts work. Loup sat idle most of the time, waiting for a client. None of the others seemed to be looking for any outside jobs. Lowenstein did wards from time to time, but nothing that she considered dark work. "I'll be honest, I don't know what to say about how well you're controlling it here. I'm not a freelancer. Haven't felt the need. Haven't run into anyone looking for anything. I do have competition. Ouch!" Wronski had kicked her in the shin, his face set.

Werner laughed, "Yes, le loup de l'ombre would be considered competition. However, she has a maître and he has been very lax finding clients for her to serve. The French, well, they have their own bureaucracy and she seems content to be mired in it."

"Everything here seems to be pretty well set. I don't know how much territory you cover. What kinds of things do you see?" Jones leaned back against the door, curious and eager for information.

Werner merely smiled, an indication that there would be no hints.

Someone bounced against the door hard enough to jar Jones. Her color drained away as she turned to face the way back home. "Can I ask a favor?"

"Favors come at a price."

With a sneer fixed on her face, she turned. "I'll make you a trade. We need someone to get us to our building. Loan us someone."

The assembled group of Aurors wore the same smug smirk. "And what do you offer in trade for such a service?" Werner asked, looking around at his force.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the towel. "This."

Werner paled; his eyes shot towards the chair where it had once been tossed. "Here. Give it to me." It seemed that he almost Apparated across the room to stand before her.

"Sloppy, Jo. I appreciated the display, but really." She hung onto the cloth and stared him down. "You'll get it back - later. I just want to get back to the school." Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she returned the cloth to her pocket. "You have my word. Do we have a deal?"

Werner held her stare, his hands clenched into fists. He started to reply, his words a growl that were choked back. Seconds ticked by, someone coughed, the rustle of hands in jackets as wands were pulled and a few of the Aurors began to creep forward.

Jones' eyes wavered, tracking the movement. "I really don't want to do this. I will, though. You know I will. I just want to go home. We're from your jurisdiction. Aren't you supposed to protect us?"

"Mueller. Go with them. Bring it back with you," Werner spat and stalked back to his chair, his body rigid.

With an undisguised smile, she waited for the comforting mass of Mueller to lead the way back to the school.